A bottle of jack's got my manager grinnin'
Yeah that's me that keeps the turntables spinniN'
I'm countin cards and I keep on winnin'
I know God hates me cuz I'm always sinnin'
U don't know me blow me ho you wanna get hot
You'll get your ass blown out f*ckin with the Kid Rock
Eatin up ya suckers just the same way a beast could
Tearin thru your town like muther f*ckin Clint Eastwood
Cuz I be fakin the rhymes that keep ya shakin'
Makin a lotta money but don't let me be mistaken
I never thought about climbin up the pop chart
And I don't give a f*ck u can't buy my tape in K-Mart
Give me a choice between soundin like an ass wipe
Or sittin in an alley smokin crack from a glass pipe
I'd be as skinny as a junkie with the AIDS plague
But still I'd look better than a puppet tryin to get paid
Now check the rhyme as i climb and I co get rude
And send ya runnin' playin' pussy like Shaggy and Scoob
Cuz I'm the wrong dude to f*ck with my mouth is mental
And I'm a tear shit up like they did in South Central
Son of a bitch I'm the son of a bitch
Nobody ever loved u so you're the son of a dick
I'm a product of a young girl top in her class
You're a product of a hooker who was sellin that ass
And your styles in the past it's old and dusty
So from now on I'm callin u M.C. Crusty
Cuz to face me u must be blitzed or blasted
So now I'm gonna drop ya like a hit of acid
And when I rip ya people they might stare
Cuz I got more rhymes than Donahue's got white hair
An yo buck won't you please be a friend
And tell your mom I wanna f*ck and I'll pick her up at 10
Kid Rock - Blow Me Lyrics
Kid Rock - Blow Me Lyrics
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A bottle of jack's got my manager grinnin'
Yeah that's me that keeps the turntables spinniN'
I'm countin cards and I keep on winnin'
I know God hates me cuz I'm always sinnin'
U don't know me blow me ho you wanna get hot
You'll get your ass blown out f*ckin with the Kid Rock
Eatin up ya suckers just the same way a beast could
Tearin thru your town like muther f*ckin Clint Eastwood
Cuz I be fakin the rhymes that keep ya shakin'
Makin a lotta money but don't let me be mistaken
I never thought about climbin up the pop chart
And I don't give a f*ck u can't buy my tape in K-Mart
Give me a choice between soundin like an ass wipe
Or sittin in an alley smokin crack from a glass pipe
I'd be as skinny as a junkie with the AIDS plague
But still I'd look better than a puppet tryin to get paid
Now check the rhyme as i climb and I co get rude
And send ya runnin' playin' pussy like Shaggy and Scoob
Cuz I'm the wrong dude to f*ck with my mouth is mental
And I'm a tear shit up like they did in South Central
Son of a bitch I'm the son of a bitch
Nobody ever loved u so you're the son of a dick
I'm a product of a young girl top in her class
You're a product of a hooker who was sellin that ass
And your styles in the past it's old and dusty
So from now on I'm callin u M.C. Crusty
Cuz to face me u must be blitzed or blasted
So now I'm gonna drop ya like a hit of acid
And when I rip ya people they might stare
Cuz I got more rhymes than Donahue's got white hair
An yo buck won't you please be a friend
And tell your mom I wanna f*ck and I'll pick her up at 10
Yeah that's me that keeps the turntables spinniN'
I'm countin cards and I keep on winnin'
I know God hates me cuz I'm always sinnin'
U don't know me blow me ho you wanna get hot
You'll get your ass blown out f*ckin with the Kid Rock
Eatin up ya suckers just the same way a beast could
Tearin thru your town like muther f*ckin Clint Eastwood
Cuz I be fakin the rhymes that keep ya shakin'
Makin a lotta money but don't let me be mistaken
I never thought about climbin up the pop chart
And I don't give a f*ck u can't buy my tape in K-Mart
Give me a choice between soundin like an ass wipe
Or sittin in an alley smokin crack from a glass pipe
I'd be as skinny as a junkie with the AIDS plague
But still I'd look better than a puppet tryin to get paid
Now check the rhyme as i climb and I co get rude
And send ya runnin' playin' pussy like Shaggy and Scoob
Cuz I'm the wrong dude to f*ck with my mouth is mental
And I'm a tear shit up like they did in South Central
Son of a bitch I'm the son of a bitch
Nobody ever loved u so you're the son of a dick
I'm a product of a young girl top in her class
You're a product of a hooker who was sellin that ass
And your styles in the past it's old and dusty
So from now on I'm callin u M.C. Crusty
Cuz to face me u must be blitzed or blasted
So now I'm gonna drop ya like a hit of acid
And when I rip ya people they might stare
Cuz I got more rhymes than Donahue's got white hair
An yo buck won't you please be a friend
And tell your mom I wanna f*ck and I'll pick her up at 10
Writer: RITCHIE
Copyright: Lyrics © THE ROYALTY NETWORK INC.
Copyright: Lyrics © THE ROYALTY NETWORK INC.